


Turn of Phrase

by cheyennesunrise



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e10 Number Crunch, Episode: s01e11 Super, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poetry, Voice Kink, fluffly, word kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheyennesunrise/pseuds/cheyennesunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Number Crunch. Harold reads poetry at John's bedside; John is surprisingly interested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn of Phrase

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Number Crunch and Super.  
> Quotes are from Tennyson's classic "The Lotus Eaters".  
> Thanks to TimelessDreamer2 for the idea and for suggesting the poem!

It had been three days ( _seventy-two hours, because Harold was always counting the hours_ ) since the surgery, and John was still in feeble condition.

His skin was still disconcertingly sallow, and Harold took frequent trips to the apartment rented out to a Mr. Harold Thrush to check on him.

On this particular occasion, he carried a well-worn tome under his arm, tucking it against the fine tweed as he leaned against the cold.

Harold approached the apartment at a casual pace in an attempt to appear normal, prosaic.

He was, after all, just Harold Thrush, not a reclusive billionaire who was hiding a fugitive from the CIA.

Harold straightened his coat and rapped his knuckles against the door once, twice, praying that John was awake. 

“I’m coming in, Mr. Reese,” he said softly.

When he didn’t receive a response, Harold opened the door with a slow, gentle hand and looked around the room.

The doctor had already been there to check John’s wound, so they were alone. The room was disarmingly silent, but Harold quickly became aware of the sound of John’s regular, even breathing.

His chest rose and fell in a gently rhythmic pattern, and a smile crossed Harold’s face. Patterns gave way to stability and predictability and safety, and he was suddenly aware of the crushing relief that John was getting better, that he was going to make it.

Harold brushed a hand over the faded cover of the book in his arms, tracing the title, and he wondered what it would be like to touch John’s skin, if it would be cold or if the flesh would burn under his fingertips.

Harold bit his lip and took one cautious step toward the bed, trying his hardest not to wake John, but it was to no avail.

John’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Harold in a daze.

“Finch? Where?” he asked hoarsely, but Harold quickly interrupted him with a hand on his forearm.

“You are in one of my apartments, Mr. Reese. You’re still recovering from the gunshot wounds, so please don’t make any sudden movements,” he warned.

John blinked several times and then shifted his gaze to the book in Harold’s arms.

“Are you going to read to me, Finch?” he asked wryly. John flashed a teasing smile, but his voice was full of affection and mirth.

Harold’s eyes widened and he looked down at the book. “I will if you want me to, Mr. Reese,” he said quickly, and John grinned again.

“Well, what are you going to read?” John pressed.

Harold opened the book to a dog-eared page and sat in the over-stuffed leather chair by the bed.

“A few poems, actually. If you don’t mind, I’d like to share a piece by Tennyson with you,” Harold said, and John nodded.

John’s expression softened as he fondly noted the joy in Harold’s eyes, that barely-contained exuberance that seemed to overtake him whenever he held a cherished book in his hands.

“This one is a bit of a mythological allusion, but I think that you’ll like it,” Harold said quietly. 

He cleared his throat and began reading, “‘Courage!’ he said, and pointed toward the land, ‘This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.’”

John watched Harold’s eyes as they swept across the page, following a precise, careful finger across rows of poetry, stanzas, words.

There was something distinctly melodic about Harold’s voice, hypnotizing, even. John listened to the crisp dictation, the animated pauses, the way he’d stop on one word and draw out the next, giving life and music to Tennyson’s delectably ornate imagery.

“In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream,” Harold continued, and John felt a strange, languorous warmth spread through him.

It was enough to make him ignore the searing pain in his leg and stomach, and John propped himself up against his pillow, held in rapt attention by the deft movements of Harold’s fingers across the page and the way that his lips formed the words, supremely articulate but somehow strangely soothing.

Harold painted his words like an artist, revealing bits of genius little by little, and he reached another stanza, carefully speaking, “Far far away did seem to mourn and rave  
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake…”

Harold paused and looked at John, expecting to see heavy- lidded eyes. Instead, the other man was wide awake, and he was marveling at Harold as if he were a thing of beauty, Galatea carved from ivory.

“Shall I continue, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked, and his voice was throaty and low.

“Yes,” John rasped, and Harold’s eyes widened at the need in his stare, the hunger in his curled fists.

“And music in his ears his beating heart did make…” Harold stopped and folded the edge of the page.

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome, Mr. Reese,” he breathed, and John looked at him pleadingly.

“Harold, wait-,” he faltered.

Harold handed the book to John and cleared his throat.

“I have a few things I need to attend to, Mr. Reese. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow,” he said quickly. 

John nodded once and wondered if his smile betrayed his disappointment.

“Thanks, Harold. See you later,” he said, and his voice was terse, controlled.

Harold returned once a day to look after John, and his bed-ridden partner was surprisingly receptive to all of his literary choices, from Kafka and Dickens to Eliot and Wordsworth.

Harold thought nothing of it, and he quite enjoyed sharing his favorite authors and poets with John. 

He continued to do so until John was well enough to get his own apartment under the name Hayes.

One particular evening, Harold arrived at John’s new apartment with Pad Thai and a slim volume of Robert Frost’s poems.

He knocked once on the door and waited. The second knock was more insistent, and Harold heard John’s wheelchair crossing the floor.

The door opened a moment later, and Harold was greeted by the sight of a decidedly happy John Reese.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked. He handed one takeout bag to John and stepped inside.

“Better, Harold. Much better.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Harold said, “but you seem particularly happy today, Mr. Reese. What’s the occasion?”

“Well, Harold,” John drawled, “I’ve been reading a lot lately.”

Harold raised an eyebrow at the shift in John’s tone, but he decided to play along.

“Really, Mr. Reese? have you found anything interesting?”

“Yes,” John said simply, and he licked his dry lips. “Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore, Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;  
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.”

Harold almost dropped his Pad Thai. “Tennyson?” he murmured, but it almost sounded like a purr.

John’s eyes twinkled as he pulled the book out from behind his back.

“Harold, would you like me to read to you?” 

His voice was low, smooth and rich like Italian wine, and Harold nodded quickly, almost as if on cue.

“Mr. Reese, you’re still injured. We should take some precautions before we-,” Harold said hurriedly, and John smirked in response.

“We’ll make do, Harold,” he said slyly.

Harold swallowed hard and placed his Pad Thai on the table.

“I’ll be right with you, John. Please bring that book with you,” he commanded.

“Of course, Harold,” John said with a seductive stare, “anything for you.”

Harold gripped the Frost collection tightly as he removed his outer coat and followed John to the back room.

They left nothing in the main room, except for the Pad Thai, which went untouched until the following morning.

End.


End file.
